AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“All right, you warm up here. There’s a composting toilet back there.” I gesture to the small closet in the rear left corner that serves as a rustic bathroom. “We can melt snow for water, and my grandfather always makes sure to have this place stocked with at least a week’s supply of canned and dry goods. When I return, I’ll start a fire in the hearth.”
She nods absently as I head to the door, my words barely registering.
“Wait! Where are you going? You can’t go back out there!”
Her expression is so aghast I have to hold back a chuckle.
“I’m going out to the lean-to to bring in a few bundles of wood to at least hold us through the night and into tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?!”
“These types of blizzards usually dump a couple of feet of snow. Even if it does stop in the next few hours, I doubt they’ll have the roads cleared until late tomorrow night at the earliest.
What I don’t say is that, with a blizzard like this, it’s likely to be snowing for days. It wasn’t supposed to hit this part of the state. The storm’s trajectory must’ve taken an abrupt turn.
Pulling up my collar, I tuck my face down into my coat, open the door only as far as I must, and squeeze through. I’m shocked to find that I can barely see my hand in front of my face. In the fifteen minutes since we’ve arrived, the intensity of the storm has kicked up a notch, and I diligently keep my shoulder pressed against the exterior of the cabin as I trudge the length of it, around the side, and to the back where I gather an armload of split logs.
As a teenager, I was the one who split the logs when my grandfather and I spent time here hunting and fishing. It’s been quite a number of years since I’ve been back, although he asks every year. Work has kept me too busy. The thought brings with it a pang of guilt.
When I finally stumble through the door with the first armload of wood, my stomach grumbles at the delicious scent wafting through the place.
“You’re cooking,” I say stupidly. It’s obvious what she’s doing. She’s taken a pot down from the rack and is standing over it where it rests atop the wood stove. She’s stirring whatever’s in there that’s infusing the air with such a delectable aroma.
Izzy flashes a smile. “It’s cowboy stew. I hope it’s all right. We haven’t eaten for hours.”
“No… Yeah… I mean, of course it’s all right. I just didn’t expect you to be…” I shake my head. I can’t do anything but return her smile. Competent, dedicated, hard-working Izzy. She’s cooking cowboy stew while humming a Christmas tune. I’ve never known a woman like her.
I’m used to plastic-pampered-Pilates-type women. Almost any other woman I know would be complaining right now, cursing her misfortune at being holed up in primitive conditions during a blizzard.
Not Izzy.
I’ve always known Ms. Miller was special. On more than one occasion I’ve sneaked into the employee break room to sample the home-cooked dishes she brings in to share with coworkers. Last month, it was melt-in-your-mouth sweet potato pie, and two weeks ago she shared homemade chicken and dumplings so good Gordon Ramsay would have chef-kissed the meal.
Isadora—Izzy—Miller is the kind of woman who’s always seemed more valuable than gold to a man like me. A man whose own mother wouldn’t have prepared him a meal to save her life.
“Cowboy stew,” I mumble as I drop the armload of split logs into the woodbin before removing my coat and draping it on a hook next to the door.
“I used cans of beef chunks, peas, green beans, carrots, and tomato soup.”
I’m impressed, and about to tell her so when she jerks and hisses sharply. “Ouch.” She’s clutching her wrist.
“Let me see.” I reach for her forearm, and the second we touch, that sizzle of connection I felt on the plane flows through me like an electric charge. She feels it too. She must, since she refuses to meet my eyes. Her gaze remains fixed on a patch of pink skin where a splash of hot stew has left a mild burn.
“Don’t move.” Grabbing a frying pan from the hanging rack, I quickly pry open a small window over the rickety two-person table against the wall and scoop snow from the windowsill into it. Then I motion for her to lower her arm into it.
That’s when I notice she’s still wearing damp clothing. “You’re soaked.”
She shrugs. “I didn’t know how long you’d be out there, and…” A blush creeps up her cheeks. “I suppose I could manage to change in the bathroom, but it’s a tight squeeze.”
Of course. She’s too modest to change in front of me and the tiny bathroom is only big enough for a toilet. There’s barely enough room to turn around.
“You need to get out of those clothes.” I rummage around in one of the plastic storage bins until I find a length of rope, which I use to string across a corner of the room. Tying one end to a nail, the other I attach to a coat hook before draping the quilt over it. “There you go. Your own private dressing room.”
I take over stirring the stew as she wheels her suitcase behind the makeshift curtain before I shed my own damp clothing.
The heat radiating between us is intense. We’ve always had chemistry. I don’t think it’s my imagination, nor is it one-sided. More than a few times over the years, I noticed her sharp head-turn when I caught her eyes giving me the once-over. Yes, there’s a mutual attraction.
I haven’t acted on it for a couple of reasons. One, because men like me don’t get to have women who crochet mittens and prepare chicken and dumplings from scratch, and two, because as her employer, the last thing I wanted to do was put her in an awkward or uncomfortable position.
